


devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes

by devourthemoon



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Feelings, Frottage, but like it's Roman lower your expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devourthemoon/pseuds/devourthemoon
Summary: The thing Roman’s learning, the thing it’s probably taken him way too long to learn anyway, is that the world has no shortage of dog cages to lock him in. It’s just that most of them don’t get him off. They just fucking suck.





	devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes

They’re on the Saw Mill, heading north. It’s late enough that most of the rush-hour traffic has cleared out. His phone buzzes on the leather backseat of the car. Kendall. He rolls his eyes before he answers: “Whazzup, dick-chugger?” 

“Hey, where are you?” Kendall’s voice is urgent, almost prying. Roman chances a sidelong glance at Gerri, next to him on the passenger side, her face implacable as she scrolls through her phone.

“Uh, none of your business, dipshit,” Roman says. “What’s so important?”

“I need you to come back into the office.” Kendall is breathing heavy, and there’s an electric pop to his syllables that indicates he’s high, as per usual. “Dad’s breathing down my neck and I’ve got this _ thing _ —”

“Sorry, Ken, no can do. Gonna have to fix your own fuckup.” Roman stretches the vowels as he stretches across the backseat, spreading his legs until he’s practically in a complete fucking — second position turnout, or whatever the ballet term is, and fuck that he still remembers from the three months of ballet lessons he took at nine years old because he lost a bet to his siblings.

Gerri looks up from her phone and frowns, the smallest shake of her head. Roman grins and spreads his legs wider.

On the phone, Kendall is whining, this and that with Dad and Rhea and some other dick-cheese bullshit getting in the way of his date with some art gallerist he met at an opening and ugh, Roman mimes choking on a massive cock with his free hand, sticking out his tongue and really just going to town as Gerri watches in bemusement. “Hey, listen, I would, but I already told Gerri I’d come over and eat her pussy tonight, okay? Gotta go. Kiss you, miss you—” He ends the call before Kendall can keep complaining.

Gerri’s still watching him from the corner of her eye, a dry smile beginning to twitch on her lips. “I’m starting to think you want everyone to know what you’re up to.”

“Great catch. You’re really perceptive, Ger.” Saying the quiet part so loud nobody thinks it could possibly be serious: the Roman Roy speciality. You can get away with murder if you do it out in the open. Roman licks his lips.

The thing Roman’s learning, the thing it’s probably taken him way too long to learn anyway, is that the world has no shortage of dog cages to lock him in. It’s just that most of them don’t get him off. They just fucking suck.

He’s been to Gerri’s before, but not in years, not since she bought the place in Westchester. Back then, he remembers she lived on the Upper East; Park and 73rd, if his memory serves, but that was a long time ago. 

He’s kind of quietly impressed by the new place, which is weirdly familiar, somehow, like maybe he toured it when he was going through that _ maybe I’ll buy a house _ phase, before he remembered that there are no houses directly over 24-hour diners in Rye or Chappaqua. (Fuck him, okay? What’s he gonna do, hire a personal chef to make him corned beef hash and chocolate cream pie when he comes home blackout drunk? Well, yeah, but that just seems like another hassle to deal with. Another guy to pay. There's always another guy to pay.) From where it sits on the waterfront, he can see clear across the Long Island Sound to the Manhattan skyline. “This place is dope,” he comments, as Gerri presses a tumbler of bourbon into his outstretched hand. 

Gerri makes a strangled sound, like she’s holding back a laugh. “I’m not surprised you think so,” she says. “I bought this one off your father, remember?”

“Fuck.” Roman claps his free hand over his face. “The divorce house. Dad sold it under the table to fuck Mom over—”

“To be quite clear, we saw it as an excellent deal.” Gerri looks amused as she sips her own bourbon. “Your father was desperate, we were ready to get out of the city, we were happy to launder a Roy estate, as it were.”

“That’s some real mob shit, Gerri. Cosa nostra bullshit.” Roman’s impressed despite himself. He also can’t believe he didn’t remember that he lived here for — well, lived is an overstatement, it was never a primary residence, Logan didn’t like being so close to the water, and still. Fuck. “Maybe I’ll buy it back from you someday.”

“Keep it in the family,” she agrees.

The dollhouse-sized Manhattan skyline twinkles across the water. Roman shuffles, shifting his weight from side to side, as Gerri stays quite still.

This is technically a work thing. Technically, he’s on the clock.

The thing is, he hasn’t jerked off in a week. Not since Gerri last told him he could. “You don’t deserve the luxury of an orgasm,” she’d told him coldly, and he whined and bitched and put up a fight until she kicked him out of her office with blue balls and a 9pm dinner reservation for which he was already late. 

He called her later that night, well past the normal hour, but she’d answered anyway. “No,” she said. “Go to bed. Don’t touch yourself.”

“But when?” he whined. He didn’t like hearing himself whine like this.

“When I say so,” she said, and hung up.

Well, fuck. It’s been a full week and he’s still standing there in Gerri’s living room, looking out the window, shifting side to side, his cock painfully hard and leaking all over his boxer briefs, as she artfully ignores him and sips her drink.

“Hey,” he says after some time. “What’s going on here? You down to clown or what, Ger-Bear?”

“Is that a new nickname?”

“Thought you’d like it better than Mole Woman.” He flashes what he’s pretty sure is a winning grin over his glass. She rolls her eyes.

“It’s a mild improvement.”

“Knew it.”

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?” She studies him over her glasses, one sharp incisor digging into her lower lip the only tell that she must be as horned-up as Roman. Which, aha. Human after all. _ Fuck _, he’s hard. “Get on your knees.”

Roman doesn’t have to be told twice. He drains his glass, sets it aside, and sinks to the floor as Gerri crosses the room, his body flushing with dark, liquid, pleasurable shame and anticipation in equal amounts. She sits heavily on the cognac leather sofa and says nothing — just watches, her gaze wary and hawkish, until Roman finally lets out a strangled whine building at the back of his throat and reaches down to palm his aching dick.

“No,” she snaps. _ Bad puppy, _ her voice says, and Roman whines again, because what an image, on a leash, a collar, begging at her feet, maybe she’d reach down to feed him a little piece of candy, or run her fingers through her wetness and let him lick it off — he’s going crazy with it, any image he gets, he can’t stop running away with it. 

“Please’m,” he mutters, slurring the words because he can’t figure out exactly what he wants to say. Gerri cocks an eyebrow and crooks one finger, beckoning him forward, but before he can scramble to his feet, she says, imperious, “Crawl.”

Roman crawls.

“Don’t look so eager,” Gerri says when he gets to her, and Roman sucks in a hot, wet breath from where he’s slumped on the hard mahogany floor between her legs. He can’t stop staring, he wants to touch her — everything, everywhere, and he won’t until she says he can. She laughs, harsh and low. “You desperate little mole. You want it, don’t you? You want me to let you eat me out…. Or — no. You want me to _ make _ you eat me.”

Roman has no poker face. That’s his whole problem. Whatever he’s thinking plays on his face like a fucking IMAX. And he knows it must show now, how much he wants to taste her, all of her, spread her out and worship her in ways that have always terrified him, press his face up against her cunt and lick until she’s had her fill, and it’s painful in more ways than one to wait like this — on his knees, shamefaced and flushing and feeling completely bare, even with his clothes still on, his belt still buckled. 

“That’s the one,” Gerri chuckles. He watches, licking his lips, as she hikes up her skirt, sliding her nylons and underwear off in one piece and casting them aside. His cock throbs, aches with it as she spreads her legs. She cups the back of his head, her nails digging into his scalp and making him shiver. “Don’t disappoint me, slime puppy.”

The thing is, Roman’s not sure when the tides turned and men were expected to be eager to eat pussy all the time. He’s never particularly liked it when he’s tried it - something about the taste and the texture, it’s just kind of gross, and how it puts all the onus on _ him _ to perform, because, like, why is it necessarily his fault if a girl can’t cum? Some vaginas just don’t work like that. Or so he’s heard. And it used to be just the woke guys who bragged about how much they loved eating pussy, and also the outliers, like Kendall, who never fucking shut up about it through the first four years of his marriage, but over time something shifted and it just became de rigeur, another way to disappoint women by not doing. 

He’s not really sure what it is, other than that it makes him feel stupid and small in the wrong ways. Cock he can handle. Cock is easy, you put it in your mouth and slob on it long enough and eventually it ejaculates. Pussy not so much — “Jesus Christ, stop overthinking it,” Gerri says above him, and Roman whines. He needs this to be good. Needs Gerri to know he’s good at this. 

He’s also not sure whether to use his hands, how much he’s allowed to touch. He starts out tentative, better safe than sorry, palming the curve of her ass in either hand, spreading her thighs open just enough to press his face against her, so he can start off with slow, easy licks into her. He presses up on his knees, no longer slouching but fully upright, and Gerri exhales low and slow, bracing herself against the couch as Roman works his tongue in deeper. “That’s it,” Gerri murmurs, her voice dusky. “The perfect place for an incompetent little brat. Try harder.”

Roman wants to try harder, he wants to do better. He squeezes her ass, tentatively and then a little rougher, and gasps when she thrusts back, impatient and imperative against his mouth. “Keep you right where you belong,” she says, gritty but audible. “Touch my clit, now, you rotten little nothing — that’s right, Roman, just like that, _ fuck_.”

Roman moans and gropes blindly; lets her reach down and press the heel of his hand against her mound. He can’t stop himself now, rocks his hand against her clit to match the pace she’s setting even as he thrusts his tongue deeper inside her. It’s all too much, Gerri’s voice thick and husky, arousal cutting through the put-on bitterness that makes his dick throb.

She tastes amazing, rich and sexy and strong and intoxicating. Roman doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

Gerri threads a hand through his hair and pulls, hard, and Roman’s no stranger to having his hair pulled; Shiv almost scalped him during one of their knock-down, drag-out scraps as teenagers. It didn’t feel like this. He wants to beg Gerri to do it again. He still doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“There you go,” Gerri says, and tightens her thighs around his face. He keeps going, rocking the heel of his hand against her clit, fucking her with his tongue, letting his stubble rasp across her inner thighs. “I — fuck,” she groans, and then she sucks in a deep breath and her thighs seize around Roman’s face again, rocking him closer, like she can’t get him deep enough into her, and he can’t breathe but it’s perfect, she’s perfect, she’s right, he’s right where he belongs.

And then as soon as he’s got it, he feels Gerri’s thighs relax, her hand coming to his forehead to push him back. Roman opens his eyes, taking a deep breath, still licking his lips. Gerri’s sitting upright once again, looking down at him with an expression he can’t quite read. It’s not her usual indignant glare, but something like it, cut with faint tenderness and — maybe — pride. It’s vaguely maternal and utterly filthy all at the same time and Roman is seriously going to have to do some self-searching as to why that makes him moan and shuffle forward on his knees, pressing his cock to her bare leg and — he dares to thrust.

Gerri looks mildly scandalized, but nowhere near what he expected. “Bad boy,” she murmurs, threading her hand through his fuck-tousled hair. “Is that all you want? You want to get yourself off rutting against my leg?”

Roman doesn’t, can’t, say yes. He drapes himself forward, into her lap, lays his face against her inner thigh, staring up at her wondering if she can read the shame on his face. This is some form of rule-breaking, he’s pretty sure, insofar as they even have rules, but then Gerri presses her leg upward against his aching dick, and she says, “Well, get on with it, slime puppy.”

He does, sets a fierce pace, rutting against her shin and calf with abandon. He wants to kiss her (they don’t kiss). He wants to undress her (he doesn’t do that) or undress himself (only when she tells him) and he wants her to use him, fuck him open, take him in every way a person can be taken, push her fingers down his throat until he gags and chain him to her four-poster and let anyone who wants a go have their turn. He wants her to tie him down, gag him, ride his face with one of those dildo-gags, make him crawl across the whole office, spread him out on a conference table for the taking — he wants everyone to see him, he wants them to stare, he wants them to _ know _. Who owns him. That he’s owned. Gerri, above him, the only constant point.

He comes on that image, his orgasm overwhelming him in deep, hard pulses, thrusting against Gerri’s leg until the very end.

“That was what you wanted,” Gerri remarks.

He lifts his head. Drops a kiss on her bare knee, then another. “Fuck,” he says. 

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean.” He glances down. The growing wet spot on his pants makes his face feel hot. He’s sticky all over and his knees fucking hurt. He’s going to have bruises tomorrow, probably — maybe he’ll wear shorts to the office and show them off. Who’s gonna stop him? His joints pop as he eases himself up to stand, and one hand drifts down to cover the stain — not that it matters, because Gerri sees it anyway, lifts an eyebrow and half-smirks in bemusement. “Shut up,” he says. “Like you’re the first person to make me come in my pants. I’ve come in tons of places.”

“I’m sure.”

"You don't know the half of them."

“Clean yourself up.” She gestures in the vague direction of the staircase. “Second floor, third door on the left, you can borrow a pair of my son’s pants. Might need a belt, but they’ll get you back to the city.”

“I thought.” Roman stops himself before he embarrasses himself again, in a decidedly less-fun way than he did just a minute ago. “Sure. You sure Richard won’t miss them? What is he, like, nineteen now?”

“Twenty-seven. I assure you, he will not.” Gerri’s eyes are already back on her phone, and Roman feels his face heating up again as he stumbles toward the staircase, takes them two at a time.

In the car, his phone buzzes again. Text from the mole woman. _ Wait until next week _.

He fumbles with the screen before he comes up with a decent response, his post-orgasmic brain a pile of jumbled, totally useless synapses. _ The ol’ pump and dump, huh? I get it. How about this: I’ll wait until next week if you don’t kick me out right after. _

_ Forgive me for assuming you’d rather not spend tomorrow morning playing doubles tennis with Mimi Kent and her husband, _pings her response, and Roman stares at it for a minute. Wrestling with the options. He can do the stupid thing, he can be sincere, or he can go for the joke.

Fuck it.

He goes for the joke. _ Why not? Bring me to the club on a leash. Show off the new boy toy. _

Gerri’s reply is a few minutes coming. The temptation is overwhelming. 

He shakes his head, and doesn’t overthink it again. He pulls up his recent calls and hits her contact without even looking at the screen. She’s always at the top of the list these days. She picks up immediately, and he stares out the window as the driver whips down the Saw Mill and he says, “I wouldn’t have minded, actually.”

“Roman—”

“I mean, fuck it, I’d go play tennis with Mimi Kent or whoever. What the fuck did I take all those lessons for? I can behave. I’m a good boy in polite company.”

“Roman.” Her voice is firm and tired, insistent, telling him to stop. He doesn’t stop. He’s not good at a lot of things but not stopping is the thing he’s best at.

“I’m just saying. I mean, I’m not saying we should get married or anything—”

“If I recall, you suggested exactly that no more than two weeks ago.”

Roman waves it off; the memory still makes his stomach churn, and fuck her for bringing it up. “Clamayto, Clamahto. I’m just saying that this is like — I mean, I don’t know, I just — fuck. You could. We could. I’m not asking, I’m just saying, you know, let’s rip off the fucking band-aid, let’s stop dancing around the maypole and shove the guy in the bear suit already. Let’s go to the farmer’s market and you can step on my balls _ there _ . Ugh.” He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, desperate for the right words to surface. His brain is alphabet fucking soup. Gerri, for her part, is very quiet. “You know what I mean. Will you, like, _ go steady _ with me or something?” He works over the words, _the words_, _go steady_, like hot ironic caramel, stretches them so far they nearly break, but all the machine-gun sarcasm in the world can’t hide the fact that he suddenly feels very, very exposed, even though he’s wearing a coat in the backseat of a car twenty minutes away.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Roman feels dizzy, stupid, incompetent. All things being equal, he’d rather just get hit in the face. Then she clears her throat quietly and says, “Go home, Roman. Go to sleep.”

“So that’s a no.”

“That’s an order,” she says, and Roman’s cock twitches. “Jesus, Roman, you really don’t know the first thing about negotiating.”

“You should teach me. I’m a pretty good student. Actually, I’m a terrible student, but I’m a quick learner.”

“_Roman_.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Get some rest. Real rest.” She doesn’t say goodbye, just ends the call then and there. Roman tosses his phone aside, hears it slide across the dark backseat and onto the floor with a _ thunk _. He spreads his legs, palms his dick through his borrowed pants. He doesn’t know how this works, why he’s always at least half-hard after they speak. He doesn’t fucking get it.

He thinks, maybe, this is one of the good cages.


End file.
